


Devils Roll the Dice, Angels Roll Their Eyes

by twentytwentytwo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, VERY dramatic religious overtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 07:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20671682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twentytwentytwo/pseuds/twentytwentytwo
Summary: “My dear. I’ve been thinking. Now that we’re…” Aziraphale trailed off.“Outcasts,” Crowley finished faintly.“Off the radar,” Aziraphale said. “Our meetings. They don’t have to be so few and far between, do they?”Crowley’s eyes flicked from where their hands touched to Aziraphale’s face. “No, I suppose they don’t,” he finally said.





	Devils Roll the Dice, Angels Roll Their Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> You pull up to a stoplight next to my car.  
I roll down my window, Cruel Summer by one Taylor Swift blasting.  
"Aziraphale and Crowley are in love," I say, tears streaming down my face.  
You go home and buy every edition of the book and the show. God smiles.

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” Crowley said. He handed Aziraphale the bag of books, their hands brushing ever so briefly.

Aziraphale stared at Crowley as he strode towards the Bentley, frozen in place with gratitude. That, and an overwhelming feeling of love.

“Lift home?” Crowley called over his shoulder.

Aziraphale looked down at the bag of books. Crowley had saved these for _him_. As if it wasn’t enough that he’d went out of his way to stop him from being inconveniently discorporated.

“Angel?” Crowley asked, when Aziraphale didn’t respond. Aziraphale looked at Crowley, a dark knight lit up by the fire of the church ruins. Every inch of space between them felt like a punishment. But a punishment from the Almighty or Satan, Aziraphale couldn’t say.

Crowley had been there since The Beginning. He’d been Aziraphale’s sworn enemy. Then, someone Aziraphale had had to swear _was_ his enemy.

Aziraphale could admit now, that they were friends. The trouble was, Aziraphale realized with great clarity, was that he wanted them to be more than friends. Aziraphale was suddenly thankful that he was the one with the power to feel love and not the other way around.

“Angel?” Crowley repeated.

“Coming, my dear,” Aziraphale choked out, striding over to the Bentley and settling into the familiarity of the passenger seat.

Aziraphale was practically bleeding love for Crowley. But Crowley could never know. Who was Aziraphale, to go against Heaven? Even if Crowley wasn’t as bad as he pretended to be. Even if Crowley wasn’t truly bad at all.

\-------

The apocalypse was over. Or it had never started. Crowley had walked through hellfire for Aziraphale and now-

Now they could dine at the Ritz in peace.

During dessert, Aziraphale pushed his plate away.

“You don’t like it?” Crowley asked, eyebrows raised. He began to waive down a waiter.

Aziraphale reached across the table and touched Crowley’s hand. Crowley froze.

“My dear. I’ve been thinking. Now that we’re…” Aziraphale trailed off. 

“Outcasts,” Crowley finished faintly.

“Off the radar,” Aziraphale said. “Our meetings. They don’t have to be so few and far between, do they?”

Crowley’s eyes flicked from where their hands touched to Aziraphale’s face. “No, I suppose they don’t,” he finally said.

“Right then,” Aziraphale said, pulling back his hand and tucking into his tiramisu. “I know you don’t particularly like eating, my dear, but you must try this,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Anything for you, angel.”

\-------

Aziraphale met Crowley for breakfast the next day. Then lunch the day after that. Soon enough they were taking every meal together. Plus, they both had a fondness for after-dinner drinks.

More often than not, Crowley spent the night at Aziraphale’s place. Crowley, with his fondness for sleeping, would pass out in Aziraphale’s comfiest armchair. Aziraphale would miracle a blanket over Crowley before tucking into his latest novel, occasionally looking up to watch the steady rise and fall of Crowley’s chest.

Aziraphale was consumed by his love for Crowley. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to voice it. Without the threat of Heaven or Hell hanging over him, all that was left was fear. Fear that Crowley didn’t love him back. Fear that he’d lose Crowley as a friend. _I love you_, Aziraphale would think, a desperate, unanswered prayer.

\-------

During the day, when there was traffic and pedestrians and fire hydrants to avoid, Crowley had no problem prioritizing conversing with Aziraphale over watching the road. It was only at night, when the Bentley was the only car around for miles, that Crowley seemed to focus on where he was going. 

As Crowley stared at the open road in front of them, Aziraphale stared at Crowley. How he confidently steered the car. The way his red hair seemed to glow as they passed under streetlights.

Aziraphale was reminded of a night from years before. A bag of books and the fleeting feeling of Crowley’s hand against his. A realization struck down by a fearful devotion to Heaven. 

Crowley slowed to a stop in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop and cut the headlights, lazily swinging his head to face Aziraphale.

The bebop on Crowley’s strange small record player washed over him. _Can anybody find me somebody to love? _

Aziraphale flushed and stepped out of the car.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked, leaning out the window.

“Yes, yes, fine,” Aziraphale lied.

An uncomfortable silence lengthened between them. After weeks of spending every moment together, Aziraphale spending the rest of the night alone seemed unnatural. Aziraphale fiddled with his shirt collar as Crowley studied him.

“See you for breakfast?” Crowley finally asked.

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

“Night, Angel,” Crowley said. Something that looked suspiciously like disappointment flickered across Crowley’s face.

Crowley waited until Aziraphale was safely inside the bookshop before driving away.

\-------

London’s winter was relentless. So was Aziraphale’s love for frequenting the park, even if the said park was cold enough to freeze Hell over. 

Aziraphale and Crowley were on their usual park bench. Aziraphale was reading. Crowley was glaring at the frozen pond in front of them.

“But where do the ducks _go_?” Crowley said.

“Migration,” Aziraphale sniffed.

Crowley tore his gaze from the pond. “Sad read, eh?” Crowley asked.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale said, immersed in his book.

“You’re sniffling,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked up. “Ah,” he said. “Some poor looking humans visited the shop yesterday and I’m afraid my body has reacted poorly.”

“You’re sick? I didn’t think we could get sick,” Crowley said. He snapped his fingers. “How about now?”

Aziraphale sneezed. “I tried to miracle it away myself. The sickness is abnormally stubborn,” Aziraphale said, frowning.

Crowley put his hand on Aziraphale’s forehead. “Hotter than hellfire,” he muttered to himself. “You know, humans say you should stay out of the cold when you’re sick,” he added pointedly.

“But it’s such a lovely day,” Aziraphale replied.

Crowley shook his head, standing up from the bench. “You need rest. We’ll go to my place, it’s closer,” Crowley said.

“If you say so, my dear,” Aziraphale said, surprised. They hardly ever spent time at Crowley’s flat.

Once they arrived, Crowley guided Aziraphale to his bedroom.

“W-what are we doing in here?” Aziraphale stuttered, resisting going through the doorway.

“Honestly, angel, I’m not going to take your innocence,” Crowley said, laughing. “Have a lie down, you’ll feel better,” he said, gesturing to the bed.

“A… lie down?”

Crowley groaned. “I can’t believe you’ve been on Earth all these years and never _slept_,” Crowley said. He pulled back the covers and looked imploringly at Aziraphale. Aziraphale laid down, feeling strangely vulnerable, trying not to be overwhelmed by how _Crowley_ Crowley’s bedsheets smelt.

“Right. Suppose this is the part where I close my eyes,” Aziraphale said.

“I’ll check on you in a bit,” Crowley said, a faint smile on his lips.

“Wait,” Aziraphale said, just as Crowley was shutting the door. Crowley paused. “Thank you, Crowley. This is very kind of you.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Go to sleep, angel.”

\-------

Aziraphale heard the bells of the bookshop door ring. Aziraphale hurried out the back room. “I’m sorry we’re closed,” he said, hastily trying to stop the tears that’d been running down his face. “The door was meant to be locked,” he added, looking up at the unwanted customer.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, bearing a bottle of wine.

Aziraphale felt more hot tears spill out of his eyes. Horrified, he wiped them away. He’d been drinking, maudlin about his unspoken love for Crowley.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, false brightness straining his voice. “Come in.”

Silent and expression unreadable, Crowley followed Aziraphale to the back room.

“I see you’re a bit ahead of me,” Crowley said, observing the two empty wine bottles on the coffee table.

A laugh startled through Aziraphale’s tears. “Yes, a bit,” Aziraphale said, sinking into an armchair.

“Aziraphale, what’s wrong?” Crowley asked, sitting in the other chair.

“Nothing, nothing, I’m fine,” Aziraphale said.

“You always say you’re fine. Even when you’re not,” Crowley said, taking off his glasses.

Aziraphale avoided Crowley’s eyes. “I need to sober up,” he said.

“Sure,” Crowley said, lips tight.

Aziraphale removed the alcohol from his body.

“I just don’t understand,” Crowley said, suddenly rising.

“Understand…?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley paced towards the door then turned around. “You say you want to see me more, then you pull away. You’ll sleep in my bloody bed, but you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“Crowley," Aziraphale said, standing. 

“Why can’t you open up to me?” Crowley broke off, making a noise of frustration.

“My dear, if you would just-“

“_Angel_,” Crowley said. “Just tell me what’s wrong. Is it me? Do you not _want_-“

“I love you, Crowley!” Aziraphale screamed.

Crowley stared at him. Silence filled the book shop.

“For whatever it’s worth, I love _you_,” Aziraphale repeated, quieter. “Is that… the worst thing you’ve ever heard?” he forced out, meeting Crowley’s stare.

“The worst thing I’ve ever heard?” Crowley echoed.

Aziraphale braced himself for rejection. All those years with Crowley by his side, broken by a secret he could no longer hide. 

A devilish grin spread across Crowley’s face. “I love you too,” he said softly. “I’ve just been waiting for you to say something.”

Aziraphale quickly crossed the room and pushed Crowley against a wall. Crowley made a noise of surprise, eyes darting from Aziraphale’s lips to his eyes.

“Sorry it took me so long,” Aziraphale whispered, gripping the front of Crowley’s shirt.

“Just kiss me, angel,” Crowley replied.

Glowing with happiness, Aziraphale complied.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen,,, please listen to Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift and try to tell me that it's not about Aziraphale and Crowley. Cheers if you notice the ten million references to the song I slid into the story haha. Please comment if you enjoyed xx


End file.
